Side of Angels
by krazysycochicka
Summary: Sherlock Holmes may be no angel but John Watson certainly was. M/M Johnlock Rating undecided.
1. The Grave prolouge

Sherlock Holmes may be no angel but John Watson certainly was. Johnlock

**WARNING**: I do not have a beta and I am horribly out of practice when it comes to creative writing so be warned.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock but I do own Benedict... No he's not locked in my closet... What kind of question is that?

Standing in the shadows of an old willow tree, green eyes watched the middle-aged man standing at a dulling gravestone. He had come back every week; always sinking to the ground and asking the gravestone the same questions.

"Can't you pull out one more miracle, Sherlock? Just for me, I'd do anything just please, please don't be dead. You can't be dead. You just can't be."

Every Sunday since his death without fail John pleaded and cried. And every Sunday Sherlock would be standing in the shadows waiting and hoping that this week he would not come. Rationalizing to himself, that despite Sherlock not actually being dead, John still needed to move one from this. However in the back of his mind he always hoped today would not be the day that he came to his own grave and no one was grieving.

It was grotesque. It was selfish.

But Sherlock had never been a particularly giving human being.

And six months had past and no matter the weather John's Sunday evening was solidly booked from 4 to 6 p.m. and no matter how far Sherlock had traveled trying to disband Moriarty's gang he was always there silently waiting and watching to see if this was the day.

He knew the dangers he was inflicting upon himself and John. But the thought of leaving John completely alone was nearly unbearable and the thought of not seeing John standing at his grave was even worse. But still just as faithful as gentle John, he stood here, the dangers be damned. But still the thoughts rang in the back of his head.

If he were seen by someone everyone he cared about would be as good as dead.

Cared?

When had that happened? When had Mrs. Hudson or Molly or even bloody Lestrade become actual human beings to him? Not just the pieces in the intricate game of 'keep Sherlock entertained.' And they had become not just human to him but they had become real _people, _people he was willing to give not only his life, but his pride for.

He supposed that was John's doing.

Sherlock prided himself on being a man of logic. Of being able to count the times a human had been able to honestly surprise him on one hand. He had lost count when John Watson had entered his life.

The man had hit him like a whirlwind.

Blindsiding him, knocking him from the back and then scaling his walls when he wasn't even looking. He had wormed his way into Sherlock's barely beating heart and gave it a jump start. Suddenly he was actually caring about people's feelings and apologizing when he had stepped over lines.

All this 'courtesy' nonsense.

It was approaching 5:50 John would be saying his goodbyes shortly. This was always the most heart wrenching part. The part that keep Sherlock coming back week after week.

And like clockwork John stopped crying and straightens his clothes, wiping away a few stray tears. He stands up straight, hand behind his back and feet together, toes straight like the Military man he is.

The first time he had done this Sherlock had been taken aback wondering what exactly John Watson was up too. And mentally scribbling down another note on the mental list he had now for things John Watson did that puzzled him.

Standing there perfectly still as always he lifted his hand out in salute. John uttered out a speech of sorts. Always different, always paining.

"I will never believe a word of it Sherlock, you were as real a man as I am, as true a man as I am," a pregnant pause followed but eventually he let out the last bit. "As real a human as I am, if not more so."

Lowering his arm he let out one last shuttering chock before turning and leaving one last sentence hanging in the air behind him.

"I won't be coming back Sherlock, I won't."

It was these words that kept Sherlock coming back every week. This broken promise from John every week, that reassured him that he was still loved, he was still precious in John's heart. Every week he came back. He lived for these words and he relished in them.

They kept his barely beating heart still going.

John Watson was not the most brilliant of men nor the most striking or exciting. He was far from flawless. But he was something Sherlock Holmes had never seen and he loved him for it.

**A/N: So yeah that's my prologue. Tell me if you think it's any good what so ever. I enjoy constructive criticism.**


	2. Mary Morstan

It had been fifty four weeks since Sherlock Holmes had jumped off a building and killed himself. Fifty-four Sundays that John had stood at the foot of this grave.

Fifty four weeks since his world had come crashing down on him.

John Watson never knew exactly what he expected when he was still coming to Sherlock's grave a whole year after the incident.

Neither did Sherlock Holmes.

'It was probably an obsessive compulsion, brought on by acute trauma,' John chuckled to himself at his own mocking in Sherlock's voice. He could practically hear the ridicule "Really John? Why do you have to be so _boring?" _

His laughter filled the graveyard bouncing off the stones and echoing down the morgue.

'How morbid that the only thing that can make me laugh anymore is sitting in front of a headstone.'

The pleas had subsided and been replaced with a longing stare at the name carved into hard lime stone. The tears however came just as frequently as ever. But John figured that was okay.

After all this was the only place he ever allowed himself to cry. Well this and 221b Baker Street. Which Mrs. Hudson had told him last week she would have to put up for rent again if John couldn't bring himself to move back in. He understood, she needed the rent. She certainly didn't want anyone in there anymore than he. Wallpapering over their smiley face, throwing out poor Gladys, carelessly destroying the memories he had made with Sherlock in there. The cases they had solved, it would mean nothing to the new renter. A shudder ripped through his body at the thought.

Strangers in his and Sherlock's sacred place. It was unacceptable. He had no other choice.

Standing up and saluting his grave as always, John promised in his goodbye that he wouldn't let anyone into that apartment.

* * *

John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes and he wasn't really sure how.

John Watson liked Mary Morstan, so when she had come into his life six months after Sherlock's death, with her big blue eyes and dark brown hair, he had let her in. He showed her how broken he was, he even told her where he went every Sunday afternoon. And she respected his space and his privacy but was still there for him. So when the day came that during one of their outings that she reached out and grabbed his hand, the nerves written all over her face. John wasn't surprised, he didn't even pull away. He let the warmth from her fingers caress his. But instead of wanting to intertwine his fingers with hers, he wanted to toss them away. Because they were too soft, too smooth and not at all calloused enough.

But he let her cling on and he smiled an empty smile. There whole relationship was this way him standing and her reaching out grabbing for his hand directing his head in a kiss.

And soon the kisses turned heavy and the next step was in front of him...

* * *

"John dear, could you come her a second?"

"Yes Miss Marry?" John replied with an even smile. It was there six month anniversary and exactly one year and six days since Sherlock's death. Last week's Sunday had been a particularly bad one and he would be going again tomorrow.

Mary turned her thin body around a lifted up her hair in the back revealing her unzipped dress.

"Zip me up?" She said in a sultry voice.

John almost winced at it.

"Of course, dear." His fingers lightly tugged on the dress being sure not to graze the skin of her back. She leaned back into his chest and he loosely wrapped his arms around her waist.

"Is tonight going to be the night John?"

"I don't know Mary I've got a busy day tomorrow, moving and then going to… you know."

At this she stilled and then tore herself out of his arms, hesitating slightly before turned around to look him dead in the eye.

"Why is it that your old roommate still comes first, John? I know it was hard for you and that you're still dealing with him being a fake bu-."

Hot anger flashed through his usually passive eyes. "Sherlock Holmes was NOT a fake, Mary. I can't believe you would even imply after all I've gone through to prove that to everyone! He was not a fake and he certainly wasn't a criminal."

Turning away from her tears started to slide down his face and his shoulders began to shake. A small hand pressed gently to his shoulder.

"I'm sorry John, so sorry. You know I didn't mean it, it's just so frustrating. I feel like you love him more than you love me."

'_I do,_' John's mind supplied but he turned around none the less and drew her into his arms once more.

"I love you, Mary. You are the most important." '_Liar.' _

It was a lie, he knew it. But Sherlock was dead and he needed to move on. So after a long pause he whisper out a quiet "Alight Mary, tonight's the night."

Happy tears swam down her face as she nuzzled further into his chest. "Really John?"

"Of course Mary, I love you." '_Lies empty lies.' _

* * *

He couldn't do it.

He lied and told her he wasn't feeling well but the truth was he could not even get aroused.

She was so beautiful and kind and understanding but as he raked his fingers through soft straight hair, all he could think about was his hands running through equally soft curly hair. When he turned to look at her he looked forward, not up and when she pressed her lips to his they were sticky with lipstick and full and moist, instead of thin and dry and rough. Her eyes were blue but they didn't pierce his soul they didn't see right through him. She was an open book and when he talked to her, she was honest and straight forward and...

_Boring_. So very, very _dull_. And predictable. And it was all wrong.

It was so very wrong. And he didn't know how to fix it.

So he left it and she left it. And they continued forward. Until a year into their relationship he couldn't take it anymore. When he looked at her all he saw was all the things that were wrong and the pieces finally snapped into place.

She wasn't Sherlock

How could of not seen it before? The reason she felt so wrong in his arms. She smelt too flowery instead of spicy. Her eyes were the wrong color of blue, her hair was straight and to light. And she was short and curvy instead of tall and slender.

She would never be Sherlock Holmes and he could never make her be.


End file.
